


"You're Obviously Sick"

by taylor_tut



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Scientists, Flu, RLS, Scientist AU, restless leg syndrome, strep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 17:53:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11385336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylor_tut/pseuds/taylor_tut
Summary: This is for @sneezequeen whose birthday was last week! Sorry it’s so late, but I hope you like it! I’m writing it in lab as I wait for my shit to be ready, so I couldn’t resist the idea of a scientist AU… I hope that’s okay! The scientist AU no one asked for but the scientist AU we all deserve. Anyway, you wanted  Lance with flu/strep, and with restless leg syndrome to top it off. It’s only gonna hint at RLS though? Because I’m garbage. I love you tho!





	"You're Obviously Sick"

Lance sat down next to Keith in the clean room and rested his head in his hands, listening to Hunk rustle through the fridge.

“How can I possibly work in a place that doesn’t keep Sriracha on hand?” he asked, shutting the refrigerator door disappointedly.

Lance glanced up at him, but his eyes instead choose to focus on the “FOOD ONLY: NO SAMPLES” sign, which was peeling off, and for some reason that bothered Lance–he’d have to tape it later.

“Hello, Earth to Lance?” Pidge said, nudging his shoulder.

“Hm?”

“Hunk was talking to you.”

“Oh, sorry, buddy,” Lance apologized.

“It’s nothing important; I was just asking how your cultures were looking."

Lance nodded. "They’re good,” he said noncommittally–he actually hadn’t checked on them that day. It had slipped his mind. What had he done instead? He felt like he’d been doing something, but he couldn’t quite remember.

“You okay?” Hunk asked, raising an eyebrow. “You seem spacey.”

“Just not sleeping too well,” Lance shrugged. “My legs are bothering me a lot? I don’t know; they have this creepy-crawly feeling when I try to go to sleep.”

Keith looked confused. “Do you have bedbugs?”

“What? Gross, no!” Lance shouted indignantly, wincing as the increased volume grated on his throat. “It’s just restless legs or something like that. Hey, does anyone have any tea they’d be willing to share with me? My throat’s killing me.”

Pidge glared skeptically. “Are you getting sick?” she asked, stepping backward. “You look like you’re getting sick.”

“I’m fine, Pidge,” he reassured, “just tired. So, tea? Yes, no?”

Everyone shook their heads. “Great. No sriracha, no tea; how do we even survive here in this barren wasteland?” He leaned into his collar and coughed, surprised himself at how wet it sounded.

“Lance–”

He stood, interrupting Hunk’s concern before he could even voice it. “I’m going to go check those cultures,” he muttered.

Keith absorbed himself in reading a paper for the next hour until Shiro broke his focus by knocking on the wall next to his desk.

“Hey, Shiro,” he said, determined to not glance up from the reading until he finished the paragraph, “what’s up?”

“I need a little favor,” he said ominously.

Shiro was the lab manager, and his “little favors” could range from “get the door for me because my hands are full” to “spend three months trying to make this genetic construct before I offhandedly tell you I decided it can’t be done and I don’t need it anymore anyway.”

“What’s the favor?”

“I think Lance asleep in the incubator and I need you to wake him up."

Keith frowned and set the paper down. "He’s what?”

“Yeah. I just walked past the 37 Celsius room and saw him sitting in the corner with his eyes closed.”

“Why didn’t you wake him up?”

“I had things in my hands,” he gestured to the two beakers of acid that he was delicately balancing in either hand, “I couldn’t get the door. Go get him.”

Keith sighed but stood up, feeling his joints creaking from the long time spent hunched over the text. “Fine."

Lance tended to be a bit… everywhere. He was a Ph.D. student just like Keith, but not nearly as high up in the class, and he was very aware of it. He worked like he was trying to prove something, and it showed. He had to read twice as many papers as Keith did to remember concepts and cycles, and he wasn’t skilled with tech and statistics like Pidge and Hunk. Instead, his value was that he poured his entire heart into every project he worked on, sometimes not even sleeping until he came up with an answer. It was something Keith both admired and hated about him.

When Keith opened the door to the incubator, the uncomfortable, dry heat of the room stung his eyes as it always did. Lance was indeed sitting on a stool in the corner of the room, his head resting on the wall and his arms crossed. He was wearing a jacket and a lab coat despite the heat and shivering still.

"Lance,” Keith tried, kicking his outstretched feet, which resulted in Lance jolting awake.

“S'goin’ on?” Lance slurred, rubbing tiredly at his eyes.

Keith bit his lip to repress a smile. “You fell asleep in here, that’s what,” he rolled his eyes. “Come on; you need to go home. You’re obviously sick.”

Lance stood and swayed, and when Keith lunged to catch him, he was alarmed by the heat that clung to his body. He’d likely had a fever even before he fell asleep in the incubator, but that couldn’t have done him any favors.

“I’m a second away from setting you in the minus forty,” he threatened, and Lance shivered at the threat.

“I’m up; I’m up. I’ll go home."

Keith nodded. "Do you have someone to take you?"

Lance rolled his eyes. "My bike,” he said, “Like I always do.” Keith knew that. He made fun of Lance’s helmet hair nearly every morning, earning a grumpy “better than a mullet,” a ritual that had become a welcome part of his morning coffee.

“You’re an idiot if you think you’re going to be able to ride that bike with a fever like this,” Keith said bluntly. “Come on. I’ll take you.”

“But Shiro–”

“Would rather have me gone for an hour than have to find a new grad student to overwork when you ride your bike into oncoming traffic,” he finished. “Watch.” Over his shoulder, he called for Shiro, who didn’t look up from his pipetting. “Shiro, Lance is sick and I’m taking him home to make sure he doesn’t die.”

Without turning around or taking out his ear buds, he gave a gloved thumbs-up.

Lance sighed and allowed himself to be set into the passenger seat of Keith’s tiny car. He dozed off and woke up in his bed to a note that read, in Keith’s messy handwriting,

“Don’t come in tomorrow if you’re sick. Hunk will bring your bike to you in his truck. I carried you home and you owe me. Clean out my mouse cages for a week.”

Lance smiled. Keith was actually a big softie, and would never make him actually do it. He was joking with him, almost like a friend rather than a rival.

When he set the note back down, he realized there were words written on the back, as well.

“I’m not joking."

Damn mullet.


End file.
